Kote looked up as the inn door opened, then stared at the young woman entering the room. Her slim body was clad in a sombre purple gown, contrasting with her hair – red as his own – falling in fiery curls almost to her waist. Most men would have stopped at the hair, but Kote only paused for a moment before turning his gaze to her face. Her still features were delicate, the pale skin clearly unused to sun, her lips a perfect pink curve. But it was her eyes which caught his attention. Her strange yellow eyes, which were empty, blank; holes in the physical perfection of her shell. He knew those eyes. They were the same eyes that lay beneath his own mask. The eyes of someone waiting to die.
Throughout the evening, Kote stole glances at her; watching as she picked at her dinner, sitting alone by the fire. He missed her name earlier but, seeing her there, long-buried talents surfaced and he knew. Ember. A spark of flame burning brightly but briefly, and now fading, dieing.
As night drew in, he saw her reach down and fumble for something beneath her cloak on the floor. She drew forth a lute and he gasped in painful longing, quickly suppressed. Instinctively, he turned to call Bast, to flee the coming music. But he was too slow.
Notes rose from the strings like a dark mist, reaching out to swirl around him, freezing him in place. It swelled and he felt it flood through his mind, his soul. It stripped away Kote-the-mask, leaving only Kvothe. Kvothe; hurting, hating, screaming inside as the music laid bare the scars – half-healed wounds – he tried to bury, hiding from himself.
As fast as it came, the music receded again, having drawn him across the room to stand beside the woman. She met his eyes, a spark of understanding flaring between them.
"It won't work, you know." Her voice was cool, expressionless, almost disinterested. "You can't starve the hunger out of yourself. Music is a part of you. You have to accept it, direct it; make it reflect who you truly are."
Suddenly, she thrust the lute at him, his hands closing reflexively around the familiar shape.
"Play. Let out the music inside."
As though in a dream, he settled it into position, resting his fingers on the strings. Then he paused, the silence echoing expectantly. This isn't right.
With a quiet "wait" he returned the lute and climbed the stairs to his room. There, he went to the heavy wooden chest sitting at the end of his bed, unopened since before he came to the town. The triple locks glided open beneath his touch, releasing the treasures of a past life. They called out to him but he ignored it, pushing them aside to remove the lute below. He sat for a moment, caressing its smooth surface. Then he shut the chest firmly, relocking it, and returned downstairs carefully carrying his instrument.
The woman seemed to hardly have moved since he left. A brief look of satisfaction crossed her face as she sees his own lute, and she gestured wordlessly to the chair beside her. He sat down, his lute cradled in his arms. Closing his eyes, he thought back to his childhood. His time in the forest when he spent hours, days, weeks learning to play the music of his senses, his memories and his emotions.
Without conscious thought, his hands picked out the tunes from long ago.
Sunlight Through Leaves
Riding In The Wagon With Ben
A Lute With Six Strings
Seamlessly, his memories took control, images unfolding in his mind and flowing out through his fingers.
Tarbean Streets With No Shoes
Denna's Eyes When She Smiles
Baiting Ambrose
A Draccus And A Legend Born
She was right. He is Edema Ruh; music is as much a part of him as stories. And this music is the story of his life.
Loving Felurian
Learning The Lethani
Calling The Name Of The Wind
He frowned as the music slows and darkens, the memories coming more painfully.
Hunting The Chandrian
To Kill A King
The Folly Of Youth
Fleeing From Yourself
His fingers fumbled for a moment, then stilled. He doesn't know how to play the next part of the story. He doesn't know how to play silence.
His eyes snapped open as chords rippled into the void. He had forgotten where he was. Forgotten the woman beside him, whose delicate fingers once more danced over the strings, calling forth the voice of the emotions buried deep within his heart.
He listened for a moment, then joined her; following her lead as he twined a counterpoint through her melody. Those songs were different to his earlier ones. They drew in the shadows flickering between the flames, weaving them into music which was bitter, but somehow also pleading yet emotionless.
Fearing Fear
Becoming The Mask
Worshipping Death's Mountain
The Waystone Inn lay in silence, and it was a silence of three parts.
The most obvious part was a hollow, echoing quiet made of things that were lacking. If there had been flames in the fireplace they would have snapped and crackled on the hearth. If there had been stragglers sitting at the bar there would have been the murmur of voices. If there had been laughter… but no, of course there was no laughter. In fact there were none of these things, and so the silence remained.
Inside the Waystone a flame-haired young woman sat beside the dying fire. A lute lay on her lap but the strings were still. Instead she listened; to the dark music calling within, echoing the man beside her. In doing this, she added a small, still sort of silence to the larger hollow one. It made an alloy of sorts, a harmony.
The third silence was not an easy thing to notice. If you listened for an hour you might begin to feel it in the grey stone walls enclosing the inn, a fortress against the world. It was in the heavy wooden chest in the innkeeper's room, opened tonight for the first time since a lifetime ended. It was in the shadows of the taproom, crowding against the small pool of light by the hearth. And it was in the hands of the man who sat there, long-denied music flowing from his fingers.
The man had true-red hair, red as flame. His eyes were dark and distant, and he played with the heart of one who has seen too much and now looks only towards the end.
The Waystone was his, just as the third silence was his. This was appropriate, as it was the greatest silence of the three, holding the others inside itself. It was deep and wide as autumn's ending. It was heavy as a great river-smooth stone. It was not a true silence, but the slow, liquid crystal music of a man playing Waiting To Die.